Sheets
by DarkSlayer84
Summary: It was her turn to be stuck with the wash, and then he showed up. GreedxMartel.


_**Sheets**_

DarkSlayer84

**Notes and Disclaimer: **Fullmetal Alchemist belongs to Hiromu Arakawa; I'm not making any money writing this story. Anime continuity.

_Thanks to Nyohah, whose taste in music and penchant for sharing it went into the construction of this fic._

The air was alive with scent. The heavy, warm odor of dust and the sharp tang of impending water almost overpowered the other smells: lye, linen, and her own sweat. She only noticed that last because she was alone. Dublith was nearly deserted, this time of day. People were indoors, taking shelter from the heat and the gathering storm. It was the same every summer: searing mornings gave way to chilling afternoon rain.

Martel sighed and plucked a pillowcase from the line. She'd gotten stuck with the wash again. They shared chores and duties, to make sure none of them were seen in any one place too often. Loa and Dorochet had gone for groceries just that morning, and Bido was playing lookout around front. In a hood, he did a solid impression of a passed-out bum, and his quick reflexes made short work of most trouble. He was a coward, sure, but stronger than he looked, and a good first responder.

There were sharp curses and periodic flashes of light from the kitchen window. For an alchemist, Kimbley had rotten hand-eye coordination, and as an alchemist, he thought he was too important to wash dishes. Those factors combined to make him drop an awful lot of plates. If the boss caught him using alchemy to keep the place tidy, they'd have another of their arguments for sure.

Cleanup after those was a real bitch. Especially the sheets.

Martel frowned and yanked down another pillowcase. The line bobbed and sang from the rebound, pins flying loose, bouncing off into the dirt at angles. She'd have to collect them later.

The boss, of course, almost never left the house—Greed was probably napping, the lucky bastard.

She wanted to doze, too. The heat sped her heart and her blood, but it also made her head buzz from the strength of the scents all around her. And then there was the weather. Iron clouds rolled overhead, smothering the sun, trapping the heat close to her skin with blasts of wet wind. Her instincts said it was time to lie down and hide. Even her human ones.

The wind raised the hair on her arms, and air tingled against the back of her mouth with every breath, sharp with the promise of lightning. She'd never get the sheets down in time if she didn't focus. Never mind how warm Greed was. Forget about the sleek heat where his shoulders faded into his chest, the smooth hot difference between skin and Shield. Forget the smell of smoke and leather and something more, the scent that was Greed, feral and intense. It didn't matter. Martel had stuff to do, and she had no time to do it in.

All the pillowcases were down, folded and stacked perfectly in the basket. She was good with laundry. She'd never failed a spot inspection, back at the base. The mindless task gave her time to herself, and with Kimbley occupied elsewhere, she could relax a little. He was crazy—he looked it, talked it, even _smelled_ it—and while he made a lot of noise about not liking the boss' attentions, he liked it even less when they were focused elsewhere, and sometimes they were focused on her.

She paused and scraped the pins up from the ground, piling them with the others, next to the basket. She gathered the first of the sheets in three quick yanks that had the linen snapping. Even rinsed out and dried, it still smelled of soap to her, bright and fresh.

She wished she could get that clean. It would take a lot more than suds and a wringer. Her soul, her heart or whatever—the part of her that was just Martel, not the soldier or the woman or the snake--had gone cold and dark. There were days she knew she might never get it back. Wash day was one of them.

Screw it. Next time, she'd do the dishes. At least those smelled of food, and not soap and sunshine and traces of their former occupants. These smelled like Greed: they were his. They were the largest, and she folded everything in order by size.

Greed was their leader, in some senses maybe their savior, and he was unusual, even for their little group. Hot in the wrong places, cold in the wrong places, with that scent she couldn't name, the one that no one else had. No human, no chimera, smelled like that. He was also trouble. But he'd saved her life. More than once. And he was not painful on the eyes.

A lifetime ago, she'd never have let Greed near her. She'd barely even been close to her fiancé, and he'd left her long before the military came knocking. She was womanly then, and human and submissive, but it hadn't made him stay. It hadn't been enough. She hadn't been enough.

Greed was different. Greed held her like she was the last woman on earth, and all his.

She knew he was there. He'd been standing there awhile, watching her, and she'd pretended not to notice, calmly folding the rest of his sheets. He liked to keep his people on their toes, and she didn't mind it enough to tell him differently, to admit that even her fear had been taken from her in that lab. Nothing was a surprise to her anymore.

Maybe he knew, and pretended to get his way. That, she didn't mind at all.

"Hello, beautiful." Greed was never shy; his fingers dug into her hipbones as he pressed against her from behind. "You look like you could use a hand."

"Sure could, Boss," said Martel with a shrug as she popped a few more pins loose. "Knock yourself out."

"I'm hurt," he crooned. His tongue flickered along the side of her neck. "Aren't we on a first name basis?"

"That depends," she said, smirking as she pushed the sheet down into the basket. "Boss."

He made a noise low in his throat and pulled her to him, strong and solid against her back. She didn't pull away. It had been a long time, and he'd never hurt her before. She always had a knife; if he did anything she didn't like, she could gut him. But why bother? He'd survive it. Anyway, this was more interesting.

Greed clutched her close, as though he could stroke her heart through her chest, purring her name in her ear. A soft hiss escaped her teeth at his touch, at the firm, certain way he cupped her breasts. She reached up, twisting, and melted into him; her breath caught in her throat when he kissed her there.

"That's my girl," he said, and she let him say it, because he was holding her like that. "Martel."

Her arms went liquid, flowing around him backward, and he let out a hoarse chuckle when she laced her fingers in his hair, pulling. His grip tightened; his hand went hard and black and she shivered—the Shield was like glass, sleek, strange, cold. She gasped at the sudden, needle-hot pinpricks of sensation when he flexed his talons. The contrast with his other hand, warm and bare, had her arms eeling lower, her thumbs hooked back as far as they could go, straining toward his belt as she wiggled her hips, squeezing. She'd never thought she'd be so grateful for the snake—for the things it let her get into.

A sharp crack of thunder brought her back to reality, to her chores and the world and the weather.

"Greed," she said, squirming at the warm pressure of his hand behind her waistband. "Wait!"

He tensed. "Why?"

"The rain," she said, "the storm," and she couldn't hold back a hiss as his hand slid lower, "we'll get soaked."

"I'll bet," he said. "Doesn't matter."

He curled his fingers, almost close enough. Martel groaned in frustration.

"The sheets," she managed. "I'll have to wash them over again."

"Fine," he said. "Let me." With that, he was out of her grip—python or not, she couldn't hold him when he didn't want to be held—and at the clothesline. He swept everything into the basket in one fell swoop, pins and all, cramming it down until everything fit. "There. Done."

"You can't just," Martel spluttered, startled, ligaments clicking softly as she pulled herself back into shape, still half-reaching for linens that weren't there anymore.

"Hey, hey." Greed shrugged. "Who's the boss here, huh?"

"Here?" She turned the word wry and eased her hands deep into his pockets, pressing until he moaned. "You mean right here?"

Point made, she unhanded him. He laughed and turned to face her.

"I've got a great idea," he said slowly.

Martel raised an eyebrow and scooped up the laundry basket. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, taking the basket from her. "What say we make the bed?"

Martel grinned back at him. "You're the boss, Boss."

-END-


End file.
